


Paris in the Springtime

by Silvestria



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Glamorous smoking, Mary has bobbed hair, Modern novels, Paris - City of Lovers, and other shocking things, sequel by popular demand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:57:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvestria/pseuds/Silvestria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"When you do decide you want to come home, Mary, write to me and I'll come to Paris for you."</i> A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/339127">Thoroughly Modern Mary</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris in the Springtime

**Author's Note:**

> For maryjosephineblake (tumblr) who requested a sequel after she made a lovely graphic for the FFNet version of TMM.

It was spring 1923 and Matthew was emerging from a long hibernation and Pigalle métro station. It was late afternoon and the light was at its most luminous in those last few hours before dusk. The air too felt cleaner and crisper on the hill going up to Montmartre than it had when he had arrived at the Gare du Nord earlier that afternoon. The world smelled new and full of anticipation.

Standing out of the way of the station entrance, he rested his bag between his feet in order to pull out his map. The Place de Pigalle had a mass of roads leading off it. Matthew had to turn the map several times over before he worked out which direction to go in. Once he had found the appropriate street, he set off at a brisk but unhurried walk, his head moving from side to side as he absorbed the feel of the area.

The streets off the Place de Pigalle were long and straight. The buildings were uniform in that traditional, elegant Parisian style and the people on the streets were mixed. It was in fact far more genteel than he had been expecting, though he might not have thought so if he had noticed the seedy bar with ladies of ill repute leaning on the counter inside which he passed while his eyes were admiring the flower boxes on the first floor above it. A few more turns took him along a particularly long, straight street with the name that was written on the back of his map. He paused at the end to take it in. There was a boulangerie on the corner and a ladies' hat shop opposite. A few houses down was a bar with outside tables where an old man sat drinking coffee and reading a newspaper and two smartly dressed young women were smoking and flirting with the waiter. It was very unEnglish and very pleasant.

Number 23 was about half way along, a solid brown door squashed between a picture frame restoration workshop and a fruit and vegetable shop. Matthew peered at the list of names beside the bells.

_Archabault, F._

_Duval, Mme. GI_

_Perrot, la famille_

_Aubin et Crawley_

_Lachapelle, R._

He took a deep breath and rang the bell next to _Aubin et Crawley_.

A few minutes later, the door was opened by a woman of indefinite age, neatly dressed in black with a crisp, white apron.

“Oui? Je peux vous aider, monsieur?” she asked.

“Er, ah, oui. Je cherche Mademoiselle Mary Crawley. Elle est ici?”

Before the maid could reply, a window was flung open on the second floor and a head poked out over the narrow balcony. “Ahoy, Monsieur Crawley! Come up! Héloise, laisse-le monter! C'est l'ami anglais de Mary!”

Matthew tilted his head back and saw the friendly face of Cécile Aubin peering down at him over a row of bright pink, spring flowers. He grinned and raised his hand in greeting.

Héloise stood back and let him pass, closing the door behind him with a heavy thunk. Inside, the hallway was dark and the décor shabby. The floor was made up of tiles, some of them cracked. They shifted and clicked under his feet as he made his way to the stairs. A window at the end of the corridor revealed a small inner courtyard, filled with washing lines. The whole place had a feel of faded gentility.

Two sets of stairs brought them to the front door of the flat. A potted plant stood to one side and there was a door mat with a sunflower design outside. The door was open and Matthew went hesitantly in.

Cécile and Mary were waiting for him just inside. It had been over a year since he had seen Mary, that time she had come home for Christmas, and she had not changed much. Her hair was still bobbed and she still looked well. She came towards him and took both his hands in hers, leaned forward and kissed him once on each cheek. It came as a surprise – it shouldn't have, of course, for this was France – but he had not kissed Mary so many times that doing it twice in quick succession could pass unnoticed. Her perfume was light, her lips warm on his cheek and her hands firm in his.

“So you came!” she greeted him with a smile.

“Of course I came; you asked me.”

“You didn't have to.” She broke away from him and walked further into the room. He could not see her expression, but her hands flexed at her side as if remembering the feel of him. “Héloise, porte sa valise dans sa chambre, s'il te plait.”

“Are you sure it's alright?” Matthew queried as the maid took his suitcase. “I don't want to put you out and I can easily find a hotel.”

“We have put you in Mary's room,” said Cécile, “and she will come in with me. You will be more comfortable and we don't mind. There is plenty of room for everybody.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Matthew,” said Mary, flinging herself down onto a sofa in the main part of the large living room, “but as you can see we don't live in a garret. There really is enough room.”

He laughed but with some embarrassment as he sat down opposite her. Stay in Mary's room, in Mary's bed? It was an unsettling thought. “Yes, your mother told me how pleasant this place was after she returned last summer.” He looked round himself, appreciating how light and airy it was, with three French windows, two of them open, the long net curtains waving gently in a breeze. “It's lovely!”

Mary smiled, her eyes shining. “Isn't it? Not half as dirty and romantic as Mama feared. I couldn't keep up the charade after she visited. No squalor, no rats, not a single courtesan dying of consumption.”

“What a shame," replied Matthew with an answering smile. It did him good to see her humour and her ease in this, her own home. “Were you glad to see her?” Remembering Mary's attitude the last time they met, he could not be sure that she would have been, though he had heard only positive things from Cora when she had come back.

Mary leaned back on the sofa, crossed her legs and opened her cigarette case. “You know,” she replied, her eyes resting thoughtfully on his, “I was glad to see her. I wish Papa had come too but I suppose that would have been asking for too much. Smoke?”

He leaned forward and took the proffered cigarette, his fingers brushing against hers as he did so. “Thanks.”

She lit hers and took a drag. “So, Matthew. What news from home? I rang Sybil in Dublin last week so I know all about the latest additions to Laura's vocabulary. But what of Downton?”

She was looking at him with as much eagerness as she would ever express which, being Mary, was not much, but he could read her all the same. _She missed home_ , he realised with a leap of his heart.

Feeling in his inner pocket, he drew out a letter and passed it across the coffee table. “I saw Edith in London on the way down and she wanted you to have this so you didn't hear second hand.”

Mary raised her eyebrows but did not reply, only opening the letter and scanning it quickly. She smiled but with some irony as she replaced it in its envelope.

“I wouldn't have minded if you'd told me. Typical Edith, making a mystery where there doesn't need to be one. I suppose you know?”

“Yes, she told me. Are you – are you pleased?” This was Edith after all.

She shrugged. “Surprised, more like. Who would have thought Edith would get a husband, an inherited title and now a baby in the space of a year! I certainly wouldn't have.” She turned on the sofa. “Cécile – I'm to be an aunt again!”

“Well now. How charming!” Cécile sauntered over to them and sat down next to Mary. “When is it to be?”

“December, or shortly before,” Mary replied. “Just after Sybil's second, I expect. Christmas will be jolly this year – if you like babies.”

“Am I invited again?” she asked. “I so much enjoyed my last visit to your home.”

Mary gave her a bright smile. “Always, cherie, if I have anything to do with it.”

There was something about her smile that struck Matthew, something different to when he had last seen her. He could not put his finger on it. He stared at her until Mary looked at him questioningly, raised her eyebrows and forced him raise his eyebrows back at her before quickly switching his attention to her friend.

“How is your book coming along, Mademoiselle Aubin?” he asked her.

She looked gratified. “All published! And the reviews are very good, thank you. I am working on another now. Something more light-hearted this time.”

“I'm so pleased for you, Made-”

“Cécile, please. We are all friends here.”

“Wait till you hear what Cécile's definition of light-hearted is, Matthew!” put in Mary, blowing out a jet of smoke.

“Oh?” He shot her a glance.

“There is a lady, beautiful, young, the world at her feet. She is married, she loves her husband desperately, her husband dies-”

“See?” interrupted Mary. “What could be more humorous? Darling, you're so gloomy!”

Cécile shrugged. “That is the beginning not the end of the story. If I were gloomy I would write une farce à la Feydeau. It is only people who are perfectly happy with their own lives who can write tragedy well. Real life is a comedy: one falls in love, one marries, one argues about trivialities and has a baby or two... What is so interesting about that? Fiction must do something better.”

“Better than that?” Mary looked at her, tilting her head to one side. “I think on the whole I would rather have the happy ending.”

“You think it's an ending?” cried Cécile as Mary stood up abruptly and walked over to a table near the window.

“Come and look at this, Matthew!” she called to him. “I have been hard at work too.”

He followed her to the table and Mary handed him a thick pile of typescript without a word. Her hand went to the chain at her neck as she watched him look at the top sheet.

_Endless Pursuit_

_A Novel By Cécile Aubin_

_Translated from the French by M J Crawley_

Matthew looked up and met her eyes. She smiled faintly, her fingers still twisting the necklace.

“You did this?”

“Yes.”

“That's wonderful!” He touched her arm. “Well done!” The words were so inadequate to express the pride he felt. And yet amidst that, he felt a kind of sadness. She was so happy here! She finally had a purpose that was all her own, doing something that he could not enter into. He had no place here.

“I've finished it,” she continued, still with that strange, wary half-smile. “That's why I wrote to you.”

“Because you finished?”

“Because I finished.” She met his gaze.

“Mary?” interrupted Cécile presently from the sofa. “Why don't you show Matthew the view? What is the point of coming to Paris if you do not see any of it?”

“The view?” He tore his eyes away from Mary's and glanced towards the windows. Surely they would not be able to see anything significant since they were only on the second floor.

“How do you feel about more stairs?”

The glint in Mary's eye as she spoke ensured that Matthew would have happily climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower itself. He followed her back out of the front door.

Four more flights of stairs, twisting up through the heart of the old building brought them higher even than the top flat. A final short set of steps led up to a double window. Mary unlocked it and stepped out onto a Juliet balcony set into the roof of the house. Matthew squeezed in beside her.

“There!” She gestured outside, the wind picking up the strands of her short hair.

The sun was setting to their right, streaking the sky with bright pinks and golds against a deepening blue. Against the horizon, the Eiffel Tower reared up, taller than any of the surrounding buildings. Thanks to Haussmann's renovations, Paris was very uniform in its skyline.

Mary leaned dangerously far over the metal railing and pointed to the left. “If you look here you can see Notre-Dame as well.”

He followed her lead, gripping the rail for dear life until he could see the twin towers of Paris' most famous church almost hidden over the roofs.

Mary tugged on his sleeve to reel him back in and leaned back against the railing, blowing her hair out of her mouth and laughing in the fresh air. “Well, Matthew, what do you think of my view?”

Leaning back next to her, he had caught a glimpse, over the roof of their own building, of that mass of white domes and spires that was Sacre Coeur, closer than he had expected it to be. Now, however, he turned and looked at her. At last he realised what was so different about her to when he had seen her last.

“You're not angry any more,” he said in wonder.

Her eyes flickered across his face. “No,” she said, and she sounded surprised. “Do you know, I don't think I am!”

The bitterness had completely gone. Maybe it was because she was not at Downton, maybe it was because this was Paris and it was impossible to be bitter in Paris, maybe it was because time heals all wounds- he did not know; he did not truly care. Mary was happy and his heart sang to see it.

On the railing, he inched his hand closer to hers until his little finger brushed hers. “Are you-” He stopped, smiled self-consciously and continued. “Are you ready to come home? Is that why you invited me?”

She took a deep breath, pressed her finger more firmly against his. “I'm not sure.” He waited for her to continue. “I haven't decided yet if I want to come home. You see, I like it here.”

Matthew smiled. “I like it here too. I like _you_ here.”

“You could always stay?”

“Do you want me to?”

For a moment, her expression lightened but she shook her head. “I'm not sure it would matter what I want. We both belong at Downton. You more than me, Matthew.”

“You could belong there too.”

She nudged her shoulder against his. “Don't make me offers you can't take back, Matthew. It's too soon for that.”

“I won't take anything back.” He covered her hand with his over the railing, revelling in this one link to her, after being apart for so long. “I only want one wife, Mary, and it's always been you. A few days in Paris won't change that.”

She raised her eyebrows, attempting to remain cool, but her cheeks glowed pink, at least they appeared to in the sunset. “That's almost romantic. And I suppose I wouldn't have asked you to come if I hadn't hoped you might say something of the kind. But I told you, I haven't decided what to do yet. I asked you to come because...” She smiled at him so sweetly as she said this that he thought his heart would burst. “Because I wanted to see you here. That's the truth of it.”

“And that's all?” He teased her. He felt sure of her now, sure of her heart and her hand as well, for no matter what she said about not having decided, he knew how this story would end, whether they returned to Downton the following week or the following year. He could not really say he minded which so long as they returned together.

“Well...” She pushed herself away from the rail to face him. “There is a charming café near here that I'd love to take you to and I can't see any reason to wait.” She held out her hand, her expression open and affectionate. “Coming?”

With a broad smile, Matthew placed his hand in her hers and let her lead him back downstairs.

 


End file.
